Chapter 2

LUCIEN’S POV

The moment the door closed behind Seraphina, the office felt different, as if the air itself had shifted and grown heavier, pressing in on me from all sides.

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I stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the folder on my desk, waiting for the familiar sense of relief that usually followed decisive action. Relief always came when problems were solved cleanly and efficiently.

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That was how my life worked. That was how I’d built everything. But this time, nothing settled. Instead, a strange pressure formed in my chest, dull at first and easy to ignore, like a mild discomfort I assumed would fade once I moved on to something more important.

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I checked my watch, irritation flickering when I realized how much time had already been wasted, and forced myself into motion. The driver was waiting.

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The airport schedule was tight. London was already pulling at my attention. Routine had always corrected the imbalance. If I kept moving, this unease would disappear the way it always did.

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It didn’t.

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By the time I reached the car, my hands were shaking, a detail I noticed with detached curiosity rather than concern, as if it were happening to someone else. I opened my phone, skimmed emails without absorbing any of them, and told myself it was just adrenaline, just the residual tension of an unpleasant but necessary task.

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The city blurred past the windows as traffic swallowed us, and I stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, refusing to examine the image that kept intruding into my thoughts, Seraphina sitting across from me, expression empty as she signed her name.

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At the airport, surrounded by noise and movement, the pressure intensified. Voices echoed too loudly. The lights felt too bright. I moved through security on autopilot, aware on some level that something was off but unwilling to slow down enough to name it.

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On the plane, I stared out the window as New York shrank beneath us, the skyline sharp and perfect, exactly the way I liked it. Exactly the way my life was supposed to be. I told myself I’d done the right thing.

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The marriage hadn’t worked. Ending it was logical. Necessary. Efficient.

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London proved, as always, that logic rewarded discipline. Meetings went well. Deals closed. Applause followed. I shook hands, accepted congratulations, and watched Cross Industries expand exactly as planned.

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By every measurable metric, I was winning. And yet, in the quiet of the hotel suite at night, the silence returned, heavier than before, settling into corners I couldn’t ignore. I poured a drink, then another, and still couldn’t shake the image of Seraphina’s face when she’d looked at me and asked if I’d ever loved her.

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The question irritated me more than it should have. Love was a useless metric. Intangible. Unproductive. I’d married her. That should have been enough. That had always been enough.

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And yet, lying awake in an unfamiliar bed, staring at a ceiling that meant nothing to me, I found myself checking my phone repeatedly, expecting a message that never came. Of course it didn’t. She’d signed the papers. She was gone. That was the point.

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When I returned to New York, James was waiting for me in my office, his expression tight with concern I didn’t feel inclined to entertain. “You look like hell,” he said bluntly.

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“I’m fine,” I replied automatically, dropping my coat over the back of my chair and turning toward my desk.

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He didn’t move. “You’ve been off since the divorce.”

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I stiffened, irritation flaring. “It was necessary.”

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“I’m not saying it wasn’t,” he said carefully. “I’m saying you don’t look like someone who just solved a problem.”

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I dismissed the comment with a wave of my hand, but over the next few days, small things began slipping through cracks I didn’t remember having. I missed a meeting entirely.

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Misplaced a file I’d reviewed three times. Snapped at an assistant for interrupting me with information I’d specifically asked for. Sleep became elusive, and when I did manage it, I woke with the same dull pressure in my chest, as if something were sitting there, unmoving and insistent.

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At night, I found myself walking through the penthouse, noticing details I’d never paid attention to before. The silence was different now, no longer neutral but sharp and echoing. I opened closets and drawers, aware of absences I hadn’t registered until they were glaring.

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A faint trace of Seraphina’s perfume lingered in the bedroom, stubborn and unmistakable. A mug she favored sat alone in the kitchen cabinet. A throw blanket was missing from the couch.

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I ordered the staff to remove everything that belonged to her, telling myself the reminders were unnecessary distractions, but when they complied, the emptiness only grew more pronounced.

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One evening, searching for something, anything to anchor myself, I stayed late in my office and opened the bottom drawer of my desk. I wasn’t looking for anything specific.

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That was when I found the envelope. Thick paper. My handwriting is on the front. Two words written with more force than I remembered using. “DON’T SEND”.

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I stared at it for a long moment before opening it, unease crawling up my spine. Inside was a letter dated two years earlier, addressed to Seraphina.

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As I read, a cold, unfamiliar sensation spread through me. I had written about fear. About control. About knowing I was pushing her away and not understanding why I couldn’t stop.

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I had written that I loved her, that the word terrified me, that vulnerability felt like weakness, and weakness felt dangerous. I had promised to try harder, to be better, to let her in.

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I read the letter three times, waiting for recognition, for memory, for something to connect the words on the page to a feeling inside me. Nothing came. The absence was more disturbing than any recollection could have been.

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James found me standing there, the letter still in my hand. “There are more,” he admitted quietly. “You wrote several. You never sent any of them.”

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Something sharp twisted in my chest. “Find her,” I said.

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James hesitated. “Lucien—she left New York. She changed her name back. She moved on.”

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“Find her,” I repeated, my voice leaving no room for argument.

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Three days later, he told me she was in Seattle, running a gallery, building a life that didn’t include me. He suggested I let it go, that closure didn’t always come from confrontation. I booked a flight that night.

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I found her at a gallery opening filled with light and color and laughter, everything about the space alive in a way my world suddenly felt sterile. She stood near a painting, confident and animated, engaged with clients who listened when she spoke.

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She looked different—stronger, freer, like someone who had finally learned how to take up space. When she saw me, the change was immediate. Her smile vanished. Her body went rigid. Without a word, she turned and walked away.

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I followed her into the rain, calling her name, my pulse pounding harder with each step.

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“Seraphina, wait.”

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She stopped but didn’t turn right away, her shoulders tense beneath her coat. When she finally faced me, her expression was closed, unreadable.

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“What are you doing here?” she asked.

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“I need to talk to you,” I said. “I need to understand what I did.”

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Her laugh was short and bitter. “Of course you do.”

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“I didn’t realize—”

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“You never did,” she interrupted, stepping closer, rain streaming down her hair. “You married me, Lucien. You chose me. And then you spent four years making me disappear.”

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The words hit harder than any accusation could have. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Standing there in the rain, stripped of every shield I’d ever relied on, I felt something shift with unsettling clarity. Losing her hadn’t freed me. It hadn’t simplified anything.

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It had exposed the one thing I’d never learned how to control.

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And for the first time, I understood that whatever this was, this ache, this need, this relentless pull, it wasn’t regret alone.

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It was an obsession.